Midnight Mince Pies


"Nor were mine," Susan Dart said.

"Nor mine," the other two Susans said together.

"Your voice, singing or reading, sent shivers through me," Susan Penworthy said.


The four women pressed closely around me. My cheek was kissed from both sides. They became bolder and all four of them kissed me on the lips. I had to break away from them for a minute or two to use the earth closet in a small room off the hall.

When I returned they had all shed their capes revealing white blouses. Underneath those blouses I could see eight erect nipples. Soon those nipples were being pressed against my bare skin. They had stripped me and themselves down to the waist.

Susan Scales broke away to open a cupboard. She pulled out a large earthenware bottle and four plain mugs. She poured liquid into the mugs.

"Hold it!" she ordered. "This is my grandfather's cider. It's much better than the Vicar's pathetic sherry. Before we make a night of it we should drink something decent to wash away that sherry."

She was right. That cider was wonderful in its way, almost as good as the mince pies. The four Susans took turns to sit on my lap as we drank mug after mug of cider. Despite my alcohol content I had a very satisfactory erection and young women wriggling across it kept it hard.

I had breasts to stroke, lips to kiss, soft arms wrapped around me and gradually breasts to kiss and nibble. I doubted my ability to satisfy four Susans but they seemed happy with my efforts. They were becoming giggly, perhaps the effect of the cider, but also because they were encouraging each other to do more to me with their breasts.

Half an hour later I was completely naked, lying on a couple of long black skirts spread across the kneelers. Susan Dart was sitting on my chest. Her spread pussy was inches from my face. Susan Tremaine was poised above my erection. Susan Penworthy and Susan Scales were standing either side of us counting together.

"One, two, THREE!" they shouted.

On three Susan Tremaine impaled herself on me. Susan Dart pushed herself forward to smother my face under her cleft. I licked with my tongue when I could. The alcohol was impeding my climax. Mrs Dart had reached orgasm several times before Susan Scales claimed my continuing hardness. Susan Penworthy's cleft was covering my face. I was the victim of four Susans who continued to swap around until finally I ejaculated into Susan Tremaine. I was slightly worried that I wasn't wearing any protection. But how could I impregnate four ghosts, even if they felt very warm, solid and delightful.

I slumped back. Susan Dart peered down at me.

"Don't worry," she said as I slipped into unconsciousness. "You can't make us pregnant. We're all carrying our husband's babies. We and they worked hard on their departure leave. In six months time..."

Susan Dart suddenly stopped. A tear dropped on my face.

"We haven't got six months, have we, James? We died tonight and our babies were never born."

I nodded. It was my last effort just before I went to sleep. During the night I was vaguely aware of soft female bodies pressed around me.


I woke up in my room in The Manor. I opened my eyes. I shut them again quickly. The room was spinning. I tried again before staggering into the ensuite bathroom for a pee. I splashed cold water on my face. I knew I had a hangover, worse than I had had since I was a student. Was it the drinking in the bar last night? The Vicar's awful sherry? Or Susan Scales grandfather's cider?

The Vicar? Four Susans? It couldn't have happened. I couldn't have attended a midnight service in 1917. It was too complicated for my pounding head. I showered, dressed and staggered down to the bar for a light breakfast of cereal, toast, and several mugs of black coffee.

I peered out towards the sea. Everything seemed so bright. The sun was shining over heavily frosted grass. I sat still for an hour. Mary Tiverton kept my black coffee topped up without saying a word. She didn't look too bright either. All of us had drunk too much last night.

We had a light lunch. The Christmas dinner and party would be in the evening. I hoped my stomach would have stopped protesting by then.

It had. I and the hotel staff had an enjoyable candlelit dinner before playing old-fashioned party games. The women giggled just like the four Susans as they teased the men. As the evening drew on their local Devon burr became more obvious. They sounded like the four Susans, so much so that I expected a Susan to walk in on the party at any time.

No Susan came. I had been avoiding alcohol for most of the evening. As I went to sleep the remains of my hangover had almost gone. I seemed to feel the Susans' bodies surrounding me again. I felt loved, comforted and happy.

On Boxing Day the morning frost was even more obvious. I could and did eat a full English breakfast before going out for a walk. I went up Chapel Lane to see the landslide. I could hear machinery the other side. Adam was standing at the blockage.

"Hello, Mr Andrews," he said. "The frost has helped. The water has stopped running. The road will take a couple more days but they hope to be able to stabilise a footpath by this afternoon. Some of the staff can go home if the footpath is safe."

It was. As I was the only guest the manager let almost all the staff go home. Boxing Day evening was very quiet. I was alone in the bar except for Mary Tiverton. We were both standing beside the bar. I asked the question I had been meaning to ask since Christmas Eve.

"Do you know the names of the people who died in the church in 1917, Mary?"

She started to speak.

"No. If you do, let me know if these names are right. Were they the Vicar Joshua Brent, and four women, Mrs Susan Dart, Mrs Susan Penworthy, Mrs Susan Scales, and Mrs Susan Tremaine?"

Mary's face paled.

"How did you know? That they were all Susan? Because Susan was their first name they used their second names in the village. They were buried under their second name. But their graves are long gone, as are the inscriptions, lost in a cliff fall in 1951. In the chapel they are just listed with their surnames. But you've never been in the chapel. How did you know, James?"

"They told me, Mary. The Vicar introduced us after the midnight service in the church that was destroyed. I was there for that service."

"How, James, how?"

"How? I don't know. It seemed that I was walking in the hotel's car park just before midnight on Christmas Eve when I heard a church bell. I followed the sound and found the church. I joined the five of them for the service, even read from the Bible -- St Luke, and had sherry and mince pies in the church room afterwards."

Mary sat down suddenly on a bar stool. I grabbed her. She seemed about to faint. She leant against me. When she spoke it was in a whisper as if she was afraid someone might hear her.

"Most of us have heard the bell on Christmas Eve. That's it. Just the bell, faint and a long way away. But..."

Mary looked around the bar. It was still empty except for the two of us.

"My grandfather said that a guest, then of the family because The Manor was still our home, told him he had gone to the midnight service in 1957. The guest hadn't thought anything of it. He had gone to the service, declined the sherry..."

"And mince pies?" I asked.

Mary nodded.

"And the mince pies. He had come straight back to The Manor. He heard a cliff fall behind him and thought nothing of it until the next morning. There was no evidence of a new cliff fall and it had been a quiet night. No one else had heard the cliff fall."

"The mince pies were wonderful," I said.

"You ate them?" Mary was incredulous.

"Two. They were... I've never had mince pies like them. I don't suppose I ever will."

"Don't be so sure, James. The village has had a special recipe for mince pies for generations."

Mary climbed off the stool and went behind the bar. She looked around underneath the counter before she placed a plastic container on it. She lifted the lid to reveal four mince pies.

"Try one. My mother made them yesterday."

The taste was the same, blissful. I spluttered my appreciation.

"You had local mince pies, from a ghost, in a church that hasn't existed for one hundred years. But we can still do the mince pies. Mine aren't yet as good as my mother's. I need a few more Christmases to practise."


I told Mary more about my experiences in the church but not about the sexual encounters with the four Susans. She could tell I was holding something back but didn't probe. I think the tradition of the ghosts and the church had more details that she hadn't told me.

That night the four Susans seemed to back around me. I enjoyed the warmth of their bodies. Just before dawn it seemed that all four of them kissed me gently before saying 'goodbye'. If they had really gone I would miss them.

After lunch I was sitting in the bar again, this time wholly alone. I had my laptop open and was checking the draft of my report on the holiday development. I couldn't write more until the Chairman returned. That might be tomorrow. Suddenly I heard the clatter of high heels moving fast. I turned around. Sophie, my Sophie, jumped on me. She kissed me passionately. Behind her I could see Mary smiling broadly.

Sophie saw my glance towards Mary.

"Thank you, Mary, thank you," Sophie said.

"Why? What for?" I spluttered between Sophie's passionate kissing.

"Mary rang me. She told me about the damaged car, the road closure, and that you were unhappy, drinking too much and having weird dreams. She thought you needed me. She was right, wasn't she?"

My kisses gave Sophie the answer she wanted. That night in our hotel room I had to prove just how much I love Sophie. Satisfying one Sophie was hard, but not as demanding as satisfying four Susans.

We stayed together at The Manor for four more days. I was able to complete my report with a cautious recommendation that included a substantial spend on improving road access.

Before we left The Manor we could tell Mary that Sophie and I had become engaged. Mary gave us some of her mother's mince pies, and a printout of the recipe, as an engagement present.

I will always remember four Susans. But Sophie is my wife.

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byoggbashan© 4 comments/ 12349 views/ 9 favorites

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by Anonymous

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by Spencerfiction11/15/17


Excellent tale of Christmas ghosts, well told, and a happy ending. Max points.

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by regularguy1311/13/17

I liked the start!

A 5 for you.

Ha! Surprise! You can't please everyone. I liked the beginning. I'm glad you took your time and gave us many believable reasons that explained why he had to spend Christmas away from hismore...

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by Anonymous11/12/17

Very Interesting But Starts Slowly

Enjoyed the story very much. However, setting rhe stage was laborious. I suggest cutting it in half.

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by JudyLee11/11/17

What a Christmas Mass!

A strange ghost story. But Sophie forgave his absence and came to him. I enjoyed it. Well written.

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